


Hid That Love Up With My Bones

by mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bad Puns, Canon Non-Binary Character, Dorks in Love, Everyone Is Gay, Falling In Love, Ghosts, Humor, JeanMarco Week 2016, Multi, Non Binary Hange Zoe - Freeform, Spirits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:03:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8481838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova
Summary: In the beginning there were the woods, and the heart of the woods was the Hollow.Or, two dead boys try to strike a bargain to get their bodies back.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is super late, but this was written for JeanMarco Week 2016, using the Day One prompt (fairytale) and the Day Seven prompts (spirit/bones). Part two coming soon.

His fingers closed around its smooth surface, wet and cool against his palm. A low hum shivered up his arm, and Marco was so startled he nearly dropped it. He hadn't felt anything in weeks. Hadn't touched anything in weeks, save the clothes on his back, now reeking of damp earth. He clutched the bone tighter and stared down at it. It had been bleached by the river. Picked clean by the fish before it was swept downstream by the current to tangle in the roots of a willow tree.

A second note joined the first, and he turned his head, following the sound until he spotted another flash of white, tangled up in roots and dirt like clutching hands, half-buried by the crumbling bank. He sidled over, still crouched, and set about freeing it one-handed, still hanging onto the first one with the other. His fingers passed easily through the loam to pull it loose. As soon as he held them in tandem, the bones began to harmonize, wordless and sweet.

Marco wasn't bothered by much these days. He'd come this way, curiosity beckoning him, because he'd heard someone singing around the bend. He hadn't expected the singer to be dead, but who was he to judge? He sang along as he dug, under his breath.

\- - -

A few pieces were missing, but by the time he finished assembling what he had found, most of a skeleton lay at the foot of the willow tree. Its long green fronds dipped low to kiss the bones, swaying in time with the music. He could have missed them, he supposed, but he'd looked all around the tree and beneath the rushing water and hadn't found anything. No doubt they'd been washed even further downstream.

He sat back on his heels and inspected his handiwork, still humming along with the unfamiliar melody. The skull was round and white, hollow eye sockets staring right through him. The song's pitch grew deep, a sinister note fluttering beneath the surface as the bones all chimed like bells. Marco stopped humming. The bones continued, trembling as the song rose in the air around them.

He half-expected them to rise with it.

They didn't.

A violent gust ripped through the clearing. The tree's fronds whipped into the air, the water's surface broken and rippling wildly, and the bones rattled as the song rose to a fever pitch, sounding like voices overlapping, crashing into one another - and then nothing. Silence. Marco instinctively took a step backwards, ears ringing. The skull's eyeless gaze bored into him.

"Where the fuck," it asked irritably, "are my feet?"

\- - -

The encroaching night was cold. Marco could still sense it, even though he no longer felt it. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his coat out of habit. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful," he said again. "You were like this when I found you. I don't know where the rest went."

"I know that," the skull said, teeth clacking. It no longer had flesh or muscle with which to shape an expression, but it could speak, and Marco could hear the frown in its voice.

"I really did look," he said, feeling inexplicably guilty.

"Fat lot of good that does me," it muttered.

Marco tried for a smile. "I could check again, if you want. I don't have anything better to do."

The skull was silent. "You're the first one," it finally said. "To hear me. The first one to stop, anyway."

"Oh." Marco wasn't sure how to respond. "It was... a nice song."

"It's something to do." The arm nearest Marco rattled, like it was trying to lift itself up, but went still after a moment. "How could you hear me?"

"Well, I'm dead." Marco wrapped his arms around his knees. "That might have something to do with it."

"You are?" It sounded surprised. The bones rattled again. "Why didn't you fade when you tried to touch me?"

"I've only been dead for a little while. I'm not exactly an expert."

"You don't look dead," the skull said. Then: "I'm Jean."

"Jean." Marco tested the unfamiliar name on his tongue. He hadn't said anyone's name in months. Sometimes he said his own, repeated it softly as he walked, in time with his footsteps, so he didn't forget. "I'm Marco."

"Marco," the skull - Jean - repeated. It struck Marco then that he must have been lonely - lonelier than Marco had ever been. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. It's nice to have someone to talk to again." He realized that it was true as he said it. He was dead, but living a half-life for reasons he had yet to discover. He could still wander the hills and dales he loved, run in the rain and watch the sunset, but it wasn't the same. It was like watching the world pass him by through a hazy film, or like looking at it through water. He could walk, but he couldn't feel the road underfoot. He could stand in the rain, but it never touched his skin. He hugged his knees a little tighter.

"So, now what? You answered my call," Jean said. Marco had no idea most of a skeleton could sound so imperious. "You're going to help me, right? Because you have to."

"Do I?" Marco asked, feigning boredom.

Jean spluttered, an impressive feat for someone with no lips. "Well, if you're not going to help, why bother stopping in the first place?" His voice went high and stammery when he was upset. Marco bit his lip to keep from smiling. "That's just cruel!"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you. But you could say please." Jean spluttered a bit more before grumbling out both a plea and an apology, sounding embarrassed. "That's better. I guess I don't really know _how_ , but I'm willing to try - "

"Oh, I know," Jean cut him off, right back to haughty. "There's a witch that supposedly lives in the Hollow who - "

"No way!" It was Marco's turn to interrupt. "I'm not going to the Hollow."

_Slithery things, slimy things, things that hide,_ the village children would sing as they played in the streets, skipping rope slapping against the dusty ground in an unsettling rhythm. _I never came back and my mother cried._

"Why not?" Jean said. "You can't get any deader."

\- - -

In the end, he agreed. He was always going to agree. He was lonely too, and Jean was better company than nothing.

Neither of them needed to sleep, so he bundled Jean's bones into his pack and set off as the sun sank lazily below the horizon. Everything except Marco cast shadows like long, crooked fingers pointing east, and he followed them, bones rhythmic at his back. He kept Jean's skull tucked in the crook of his arm, though, on request. "If that's alright," Jean said. "Where I was before, it was ... "

"I get it," Marco said gently.

Night rolled over the sky in a long, unbroken swell, dying the sky a silvery-blue, and soon stars flickered in the swollen face of the moon. They wouldn't be seen, so they walked down the middle of the road, watching the black water as it twisted and writhed alongside them. Marco hummed snatches of songs he half-remembered his mother singing when he was small to pass the time.

"Who were you before?" Jean asked. 

"The middle son of a middle son." He still remembered, but the color was starting to leech out the edges of his memories. "The son of a merchant and a baker. No one special."

"That doesn't sound so bad." Jean's jaw felt strange as it moved against his arm, but not as strange as it had two hours ago.

"Who were you? Since we're sharing." Jean didn't reply at first, and Marco jostled him lightly. "Are you a lost prince or something?"

"Yes," Jean says. "From neighboring lands, a long time ago."

Marco fumbled at that and nearly dropped him. "I was joking!"

"Watch it!" Jean snapped. "I was visiting here when it happened. I was only supposed to be here a few days."

"Oh," Marco said. Then, because he didn't know what else to say: "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Jean said, softer this time.

The river gurgled and rushed at their side, a constant companion. Marco's boots never quite touched the road.

\- - - 

It was midday, sun high in the sky, when they came to a crossroads. Neither of them had said anything for the last several hours, each consumed with his own thoughts, but now they stood in front of the signpost, ravens circling overhead like scraps of black cloth on the thermals. Marco squinted up at the weathered signs, barely legible after all these years. The Hollow lay deep in the woods that crept up on the nearest city, threatening to swallow it whole. At least, that's what he'd been told. He was trying to figure out whether or not they should cut through the city when faint music reached his ears, and every hair on the back of his neck prickled.

"Do you hear that?"

"They're near," Jean said.

"What are?"

"My feet!" Jean said, practically vibrating with excitement.

Marco couldn't help it this time. He laughed.

"Oh, fuck off," Jean said, cross all over again, and Marco laughed harder.

\- - -

The meadow was lush and green, clinging to the remnants of summer as autumn came lumbering in. Scattered clumps of sheep grazed peacefully, stark white against the landscape, and a lone tree rose over some scattered boulders in its center, the first blush of orange and gold on its leaves. A shepherd boy, brown from the sun and dressed in ragged robes, sat beneath it, playing birdsongs on his pipes; there was a fairy ring in front of him, and in its center, a pair of skeletal feet danced a jig all on their own.

Jean growled. "What is he doing with my feet?"

"What does it look like?" 

"I don't know, Marco. That's why I asked."

Marco shook his head and set out across the field. The boy didn't look up when they approached, but he paused in his playing long enough to say, "You have to talk to my father back at the farm if you're looking to buy."

"I'm not paying for them," Jean said. "They're my feet!"

"I think he means sheep," Marco said.

"Yeah," the boy said. "Wait. What?" He looked up this time, and the feet fell to the grass as soon as the music stopped, motionless. Up close, he looked older, nearing adulthood, with strong brown limbs and fierce eyes a few shades darker than the grass. His gaze flicked from Marco, to the skull tucked under his arm, and back again. "Did that skull just say something?"

"Yes, you idiot, I want my feet back!" Jean said, impatient.

Marco tried to shush him, but it was too late. The boy scowled, thick brows knitting together.

"Why should I?"

"Because they're mine!" 

The shepherd ignored him, picking his pipes back up and setting them to his lips once more. A quick, sweet trill of notes hung in the air, and the feet kicked up in a merry jig once more, uncaring as Jean's teeth chattered with rage. "This is degrading!"

"That's too bad," the shepherd said around the mouthpiece, and played another quick tune. The feet rose up on their skeletal toes and twirled, graceful.

"I keep telling you to be more polite," Marco said. Jean huffed.

"This isn't funny. Those are _mine._ "

"Oh yeah?" The boy smiled slyly, clearly enjoying himself. "How do I know they're yours, and not some other dead guy's feet?"

Jean switched tactics and whined at Marco. "Can't you go get them for me?"

"I'm not stepping into a faerie ring, Jean." His parents had made sure that he and his siblings knew not to meddle with the fae folk as soon as they were old enough to walk on their own. He still remembered his father's shuttered expression as he told them of his own brother, who had wandered off one day as a child and never returned. Three days later, they'd found his clothes neatly folded and overgrown with weeds in the center of a faerie ring that grew near the edge of town, where the woods began. "You probably shouldn't mess with it either, uh..."

"Eren." The shepherd squinted up at them. "And I know not to step in one. It's just so _boring_ out here. Wolves don't even try to attack the flock anymore. Not since my father had the fences charmed."

Marco considered him for a moment - the stubborn twist of his mouth, the way he so easily commanded the pieces of a dead man without fear. "Where did you find them, anyway?"

Eren jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Downstream, when I took the sheep for a drink. They were washed up on the bank."

"Just the feet?"

"Uh... no." Something like guilt soured his expression. "But I don't have the rest anymore."

Jean uttered a curse so foul that it caused a cloud of starlings to explode out of the tree in alarm. Marco clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest. Eren looked impressed despite himself.

"Tell you what. I'm Marco, and this is my friend Jean, who's _very sorry_ for being rude." A noise like teeth grinding together came from behind Marco's palm. "If you give us his feet back, and show us what you did with the rest, you can come with us."

Jean tried to bite Marco's hand and got a light shake for his trouble. Eren's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Why would I wanna do that?"

"Because," Marco said. "You're bored, and we're going to the Hollow."

Eren nearly dropped his pipes as he scrambled upright. "Really?"

"This is a terrible idea," Jean groused as soon as Marco let go of his jaw.

Eren sneered at him. "Better be nice if you want your feet back."

"Yeah, Jean," Marco said, and slapped his hand over Jean's mouth again before he could spit out another curse.

\- - -

They left not long after, cutting across green-gold fields of wheat that swayed and twisted in the breeze towards the capitol, and Eren lead the way, practically skipping.

"Wait until Armin sees this," he called over his shoulder. "Lots of bones wash up around here, but nobody's ever come to claim them. And we never get ghosts." He paused. "You _are_ a ghost, right?"

"As far as I know," Marco said.

Eren smiled dreamily. "Awesome."

Jean had been relatively quiet after Eren decided to join them, mollified by the return of his feet. But when the shepherd bounded ahead, he said quietly, "Marco."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Marco looked down and was reminded once more, with a bizarre clarity, that he'd been carting someone's head around for the better part of two days. "You're welcome. It's not that big of a deal. I mean..." He shrugged. "I'd want my body back too."

"Back there," Jean said. "You called me your friend."

Marco thought about it. "I guess I did."

"Did you mean it?"

\- - -

He'd been to Sina with his father many times as a child, and then on his own when he was older, but he'd never quite gotten used to it. It was massive and noisy, all the buildings made of faded reddish brick and crowded together like crooked teeth, and the people always seemed like they were in a hurry, unlike the sleepy village where he'd grown up. Eren had never actually set foot in the city, and kept staring at everything with wide-eyed wonder, ignoring the dogs that barked at them and the babies that wailed as they passed, Marco and Jean trailing behind him like a shadow.

"It's so _big,_ " he kept saying, turning in circles to take in the crowd, and narrowly avoiding several collisions in the process.

"Bigger than I remember," Marco said as they passed under the cobblestone archways that framed the street that lead to the market square, crimson banners fluttering overhead. It wasn't as vibrant as he recalled, though, and he wasn't sure if it was because his childhood memories made everything seem so much _more_ than it truly was, or if it was simply because he could no longer touch or smell or taste. His fingers sunk into the wall of the building next to them when he tried to touch it, and he pulled his hand away with a sigh.

"Where I'm from is even bigger than this," Jean said, not to be outdone. "Grander, too. But not as chaotic." Eren pulled a face.

A pack of children roved past, dirty and lean like young wolves, laughing as they scuffled amongst themselves. A couple of them jostled Eren as they scampered by, but paid no mind to anyone else who might be present.

"How come I can see you?" Eren asked, once they were out of earshot. "Nobody else can."

"We're easy to ignore," Marco said.

"When you're dead, no one pays attention to you unless you make them," Jean said. "Or unless you're a filthy, shepherding thief, I guess."

Eren glared at him. "I gave you back your dumb old feet, bonebag."

"And as soon as I get my body back, I'm going to use them to kick your ass."

"I'd like to see you try!"

Marco groaned. The bickering continued until they were nearly to the market, at which point Jean suggested that Eren probably did more to the sheep than herd them, and Marco had to stop Eren from snatching Jean's head and throwing it off the nearest walkway into the canals below.

"If you're not careful, you're not going to be alive again for very long," he scolded as Eren stomped ahead, steaming.

"Sorry," Jean muttered, not sounding very sorry at all.

\- - -

The square, on the other hand, was exactly how he remembered it. Chaos reigned. Colorful silk tents were pitched next to splintered wooden stalls selling food and trinkets, clothing and candles, spices and wine; merchants, musicians, preachers and scribes alike clamored for attention in harmony over the crush of bodies buying and selling and browsing, and he was sure that the same heavy scents of spice and smoke and leather hung thick in the air. Eren, strangely enough, seemed at home here, darting from stand to stand and exclaiming over everything as Marco tried to keep up with him, holding tightly onto Jean's skull.

"I think I see Armin," he yelled in Marco's ear at one point, and dashed off, past an indigo-striped tent selling incense and tiny, floating candles that twinkled like stars against the dark fabric. Marco slipped through the crowd after him. He supposed it was nice not to have to worry about being jostled, but it was still disconcerting to see parts of his body dispersing and reforming like smoke as people passed through him.

He could pick out a different tune now, lively and sweet, coming from the edge of the square, where things had thinned out a bit, and followed it, since he'd lost sight of Eren. They passed a stall where a girl of no more than five stood on an upturned wicker basket, helping her family sell sweet bread stuffed with fruit and drizzled with honey. Marco looked at her and suddenly had a memory of doing the exact same thing at her age, determined to make his parents proud. It was vivid enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Marco?" Jean asked, alarmed out of his sulk. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Marco said automatically. There was a peculiar sensation in his chest, like his heart was trying to remember how to hurt. "Nothing. Sorry."

"It's okay," Jean said. He didn't sound convinced, but he didn't push the subject either, for which Marco was grateful.

They found Armin not long after, near a crumbling stone wall, standing on an upturned box and playing the lyre. He was around Eren's age, small and pale, with long blond hair and a kind smile. The hands poking out of the sleeves of his brown wool coat were slender and skeletal, and very white in the late afternoon sunlight. A group of enraptured children crowded around his feet as he made the instrument sing, and Marco and Jean stood off to the side and watched him play - or rather, Jean did. Marco watched Eren, who stood at the back of the gaggle, gazing at Armin, bronze cheeks tinged pink and naked adoration in his eyes.

_Ah,_ Marco thought. That explained some things.

"My hands never played that well attached to me," Jean said, affronted.

\- - -

"It's not Armin's fault!" Eren had put himself protectively between Marco and the smaller boy, fists curled tightly at his sides. "I'm the one who gave them to him!"

"Yeah, we've already established that you're an idiot," Jean said.

Eren looked like he might lunge at them both, but Armin grabbed the back of his tunic and held onto it firmly. "Eren, stop. It's alright." Eren growled, but held still. Armin let him go and stepped forward. His eyes were deep blue up close, wide-set and inquisitive. "What are your names?"

"I'm Marco. This is Jean."

"Please, don't be too hard on Eren." Armin clutched the lyre tighter. "I'm not good at much. Music is how I make my living."

"That's not true," Eren interjected loudly.

Armin just shook his head with a sad smile. Marco got the feeling that this was an old argument. 

"When I lost my hands, I was afraid that... that I'd be a burden. But Eren brings me things when he finds them... gloves and things. But they don't usually last very long, so he keeps bringing me new ones. He's just looking out for me."

Eren looked away, scuffing his toe against the dirt. Jean scoffed, and Marco smothered the noise with his coat. "It can't be easy," he said.

Armin shrugged. "Here," he said, and held out his arms, Jean's hands dangling limply from his sleeves. "Take them."

"I had a ribcage, too," Jean said, and then immediately blurted out, "But thank you," before Eren could try to pitch him into the canals again.

Marco rolled his eyes, hiding a smile. "Sorry. He's not used to asking nicely for things."

"That's alright." Armin was cherry red now. "But, um. About your ribcage."

Eren burst out laughing.

\- - -

"What kind of person sees someone's _ribcage_ and thinks, 'Oh, perfect, I needed a new place to put my parakeets,'?"

"I don't know," Marco said as they walked towards the palace and its surrounding districts. It was almost as if they'd crossed some invisible threshold. Brick and mortar began to give way to gleaming marble sculpted into rich, clean architecture, much more spacious than the cramped, dizzying lower districts with their criss-crossing alleyways and crumbling apartments. "Is this more like where you're from?"

"It's closer." Marco waited to see if he was going to elaborate, but Jean didn't seem like he wanted to continue discussing it, and in truth, Marco really just wanted to find what they came for and leave. All that cold white stillness was unforgiving, and reflected the sun back into his eyes.

He glanced over his shoulder at Eren and Armin, who trailed behind them, heads bent together as they spoke in hushed tones. The sight made him feel that strange, phantom ache all over again. "Thank you again," Jean said, drawing his attention back as they crossed another one of the narrow bridges that arced over the canals like fish bones, water flowing sluggishly beneath them. "For helping me."

"What are friends for?"

"You really did mean it," Jean said, sounding surprised and pleased.

Marco had the sudden mental image of a small boy, alone in a castle with too many rooms. "I did. So if I wind up scattered across the countryside after you get your body back, you'd better come collect me," he joked.

"And what if," Jean said after a pause, "I told you that I thought there might be a way to get yours back as well?"

Marco halted at the end of the bridge, head buzzing. He was afraid he'd misheard Jean at first. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes."

Marco lifted Jean up so they were eye level. Jean's eye sockets no longer looked lifeless. There was someone looking back at him, a prisoner in his own remains. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be."

He could almost feel his own heartbeat. "Then I'd say you're my best friend in the world right now."

"Hey, what are you guys talking about?" Eren loped up, dragging Armin along by his wrist.

"None of your business," Jean said, and Marco just smiled. He couldn't stop smiling.

\- - -

It was easy enough for Armin to lead them to the noble girl's house. Hers was the only one with the windows open, curtains flung wide, not locked and shuttered like the others. "Everyone is at the market," he explained. "It lasts from sunup to sundown." He put his arm out, halting their group a short distance from the gate. "Look."

Marco looked. There was a girl perched in the window sill, high above them, dressed in pale blue and framed by thick, inky blue drapes like a painting. He glimpsed something white and curved in her lap, half-hidden by her skirts.

"Her name is Historia," Armin said. "She comes to watch me play sometimes, but I never see her with anyone, and she stays after everyone else is gone. I think she must be lonely." Marco nodded. He could sympathize. "This is going to require some tact, so... Eren, you should probably stay here."

"Hey!" Eren protested.

Jean snickered, but his mirth was short-lived as Marco shoved him into the other boy's hands. "You too, Jean."

" _Hey_!" Now it was Eren's turn to laugh. "You can't leave me with him!"

"You'll be fine," Marco said. "Eren, he's my friend. Please don't throw him off the bridge."

"He won't," Armin said, and shot him a stern look.

"I won't, don't worry," Eren said. "Even though I really want to."

\- - -

There was no one to stop them, so Armin pushed open the heavy front door with his forearms and they walked into a vast expanse of plush white carpet and blue-and-cream-patterned walls. All the furniture was blue and white too, and a delicate blue spiral staircase rose from the center of the room. Marco was glad he couldn't accidentally bump into anything, in case he broke it. They climbed the stairs in silence and wandered along the upper floor, which itself was twice as big as Marco's shabby family abode, and eerily silent. Marco wondered if it was just her living there, and if so, what she needed all that room for.

Finally, they spotted a door that sat ajar, and Marco drifted through it, Armin behind him. The girl was sitting cross-legged on the window seat, skirts pooled around her like a flower in bloom, and in the birdcage sat a small brown bird, unremarkable except for its distressed chirps. She frowned prettily as it pecked at her fingers, and Marco thought she actually looked like Armin, fine-boned, almost elfin with her blonde hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.

"Strange to make a birdcage of bone, don't you think?"

She gasped and scrambled backwards, clutching the cage to her chest. Armin stepped forward, arms out. Placating.

"My apologies, Lady Historia. We didn't mean to startle you."

Recognition dawned in her eyes. "Oh... you're the boy who sold this to me."

"Yes. I'm Armin. This is Marco."

"Those bones belong to a friend," Marco said. "Can I ask why you need them?"

"Metal can't hold her." The bird trilled, hidden by her bunched-up knees. 

"Who is she?"

"Someone important to me." Historia looked down. "She took on a curse to protect me. I want to help her, but she won't let me. She refuses to stay put!" This last part was directed at the bird, who chattered back angrily.

"I'm sorry," Armin said, voice soft. "That must be terrible for both of you."

"It's all my fault." Tears welled up, threatening to spill down her cheeks like rain.

Marco looked past her, out the open window, into a crisp autumn sky. "Do you know how to break the curse?" She shook her head. "I don't know much about curses, either. But when I was little, my sisters and I used to try to lure wild animals out of the woods and catch them so we could keep them as pets. It never worked, though. And my mom would always tell us that if you love something, you have to give it a choice whether or not to love you back." He smiled. "Maybe it's worth a shot."

"You're just saying that," Historia said. But she sounded thoughtful, not angry. 

"Well, my friend really does need his ribs back," Marco admitted. "But I was serious. It could work."

"You should come with us," Armin said suddenly. Both Marco and Historia looked at him, and he flushed pink and amended, "If you wanted to. And if it was alright with Marco and Jean, of course. We're going to the Hollow. If you bring something of value to trade, maybe the witch can tell you how to break the curse."

"Really?" Historia was pretty, but hope made her stunning. 

"Why not?" Marco shrugged. "We all need something. You might as well."

Historia stared down into the cage, and the bird looked back, cocking its head to the side with bright, unblinking eyes. She unlatched the door. "Will you come back?" she asked. Her answer was a soft rustle of feathers as the bird spread its wings.

\- - -

It was nearing sunset when they came down - Marco first, adjusting his pack, then Historia, who'd changed into a tunic and breeches more suitable for travel, and finally Armin, so busy staring awestruck at his new hands that he tripped over the doorframe. Historia had given him several pairs of gloves, all made of soft blue and white cotton, and it was clear he'd never owned anything half as nice. Eren was slumped against the gate, Jean's skull sitting next to him while he idly played his pipes, but he clambered to his feet when he saw them.

"Finally! Here." He practically shoved Jean into Marco's chest. "Who's this?"

"Lady Historia," Armin said.

"Just Historia." She waved, dipped a little curtsy with the edge of her cloak. 

"She's coming with us to the Hollow."

"Oh, good," Jean said. "More people."

"I'm Eren." He looked her over. "Are you and Armin related?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Oh. Well, you're almost as pretty as he is," Eren said, and proceeded to look pleased with himself as Armin went scarlet. Marco snorted, and Historia burst into laughter, clapping her hands over her mouth.

"You can't tell," Jean said, "but I'm rolling my eyes right now."

\- - -

Later, much later, when the moon had risen and they'd made camp for the night in the fields so the living could rest, Marco sat in the long grass, gazing up at the stars. Jean sat next to him, and when Marco looked down, he was struck with a thought.

"I just realized. I'll finally get to see what you look like."

Jean was silent for a while. "Does it matter?"

Marco shook his head. "No. But wouldn't you be curious, if you were me?"

"I suppose."

"Besides, I've never seen a real prince... you know." He kept his voice casual. "In the flesh."

It took Jean a second, but then he groaned, and Marco snickered. "You're not allowed to make jokes anymore."

"What, that didn't tickle your funny bone?"

"Oh my gods. Marco."

"Hey, maybe you can ask the witch for your sense of humor back, too."

"My sense of humor isn't the problem here!"

"No, no. You're right." He grinned. "Guess I need to bone up on some new material."

"Fuck you, Marco!" Jean howled, and then they were both laughing and neither of them could stop until Eren threw his shoe and yelled at them to shut up, people were trying to sleep.

\- - -

"Everyone ready to go?" Armin asked after breakfast, fire smothered and burnt to ashes.

Everyone made noises of assent, and Marco scooped Jean up from his perch on a tree stump. "How much further do we have to go? Does anyone know?"

"Less than a day," Jean said promptly, and everyone looked at him.

"How do you know?" Eren asked, suspicious.

"I can feel it in my bones," Jean said, and cackled as Eren made a gagging noise.

"Mm, it's funnier when I do it," Marco said.

\- - -

In the beginning, there were only the woods, and the heart of the woods was the Hollow.

The people existed in an uneasy truce with the woods. They were old magic. Blood magic. They built towns and cities and kingdoms, dividing the land amongst themselves, but the woods remained. The people never took more than what was offered to them, out of some combination of respect and fear. They'd learned that the woods came to take back what belonged to them, eventually.

\- - -

Nobody went to the Hollow unless they had lost something.

Nobody went to the Hollow unless they didn't want to be found.

\- - -

"So, which ones are you, hmm?"

The witch didn't look how Marco had expected - not that he knew what to expect. He'd never met a witch. They had long brown hair and tiny glass spectacles, and their hands were caked with dirt from working in their garden. All witches have gardens. This one bloomed lush and toxic in front of a squat cottage, smoke curling from a crooked chimney. It was dizzying to look at.

"We're sorry to trouble you," Historia said, stepping forward. "It's just - "

"You need help," the witch said.

"We need help," Jean echoed.

\- - -

There were cats roaming all over the cottage. How many, Marco didn't know; he counted anywhere between three and twenty, all peering at the visitors from various nooks and crannies with slitted black and gold eyes. The five of them sat at a low wooden table, all crowded on one side while the witch sat on the other, drinking tea. Eren, Historia and Armin all drank tea from chipped cups, while Marco and Jean sat quiet. They knew better than refuse what was offered. 

"So you both need your bodies restored," the witch said, and set their cup down. "Interesting." Cats twined about their ankles, meowing softly. One jumped into Historia's lap, and she giggled as it rubbed its face against her hand. "And why are the rest of you here?"

"Adventure," Eren said bravely, and the witch turned their gaze on him.

"Careful, boy. The woods aren't to be taken lightly." He held their gaze, but Marco saw him grip the edges of his chair, white-knuckled. The witch looked at Armin and Historia. "You're both here for my help as well." They glanced at one another, then nodded. The witch leaned back in their chair and steepled their fingers under their chin, smiling. It was a pleasant smile, but it sent a chill down Marco's spine. "Not many dare to seek me out."

"Can you help us?" Jean asked.

"Of course I _can,_ " the witch said. They reached down and stroked the cat sleeping in their lap. "But you're asking the wrong question."

"What will it take?" Marco asked. The witch's smile grew wide and sharp and very, very white.

\- - -

Midnight struck in the garden, and the witch laid Jean's bones out amongst the nightblooms and asphodel. When they pricked their finger, blood blossomed at its tip.

"A half-measure," they said.

Three drops of blood landed on Jean's collarbones, black in the moonlight.

The witch turned to Marco. "In three day's time, you will arrive at the king's court. His daughter is desperately unhappy, and the crops are beginning to wither and die before the harvest. You know what to ask for once you've succeeded."

"Yes," Marco said.

The witch studied him for a long moment. "Your mother has some old magic in her veins," they said. "She knew to bury you at a crossroads on the full moon."

Marco stared at them. A rush of affection for his mother filled him, sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes.

The witch smiled and raised their finger to his lips. Three drops of blood fell on his tongue, bright as jewels.

\- - -

If you looked closely, you could still see the ghostly imprint of bones, transparent beneath Jean's new skin, but Marco barely noticed. The boy sitting up and looking around, dazed, was around his age. He wore plain woven clothing, and his face was long and angular, with sharp features and sleepy dark eyes. He looked down at himself, at his hands, eyes going wide, and then he fell backwards into the flowers and laughed, sending petals scattering on the breeze. The witch stood and watched them, a crooked little smile hovering on their lips.

Marco stared. Blood had given them both temporary substance. He could feel his heartbeat for the first time in weeks, hammering in his ears.

Jean sat up, and his gaze locked with Marco's. Neither of them moved.

"Wow," Marco said softly, before he realized he'd spoken.

Jean grinned.

\- - -

"Please be careful," Armin said, catching at Marco's sleeve. "We'll be here when you get back."

"Tell that to Jean," Marco said. He'd already had to stop him from eating one of the round red apples that dangled temptingly from the tree that grew next to the cottage - "it's been _ten minutes_ , did you really like being dead that much?" - but he was finding it difficult to stay mad. He looked over his shoulder, where Jean sat on a fallen log, trying to entice some of the nearby cats with sprigs of catnip. He caught Marco's eye and winked. Marco felt his face grow hot, and he looked back at Armin. "We'll be careful."

Historia waved from the cottage door, broom in hand. Eren grabbed Marco's hand and squeezed it, then socked Jean in the shoulder in what was presumably a friendly gesture, ignoring his pained squawk. Marco grabbed his elbow and dragged him away. The witch stood at the window and watched them go.

"Remember," they said, and somehow Marco heard them. 

"What if we don't succeed?" Jean asked under his breath. "What then?"

"We have to," Marco said. Moonbeams scattered across their path, illuminating branches meshed high above them, like hands clasped in prayer. Jean's shoulder bumped against his, warm in the cool night air.

He took a step forward. The road was firm beneath his boots.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story accidentally fell by the wayside for a bit, but it's back with the second part. There will be a third to wrap it up later on.

Back when he'd first set out to make his fortunate, he'd thought that a meeting with the king would be a momentous occasion. He'd thought that he would feel something grand and golden, an omen of things to come. Instead, he just felt pity.

The king wasn't terribly old, but his hair was little more than stark white wisps, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were so deep, it was as if someone had chiseled his face out of granite.

"Do we have a deal, travelers?"

His voice echoed, weary, in the empty throne room. The king wasn't up to more than one or two visitors at a time these days, the attendant had murmured before ushering them in.

 _Remember,_ the witch whispered. 

"Yes," Marco said.

"Others have tried before you," the king said. He slumped in his throne, head listing onto his chest like he could no longer stand to bear its weight. His crown was wrought silver and pearl and it should have been beautiful. "But my daughter remains inconsolable, and so do the farmers. When the reserves run out, my people will starve." He looked at Marco and Jean with gummy, red-rimmed eyes. "Stop this, before they demand I burn her."

"We will, your Majesty," Jean said, spine arrow-straight. Marco had never seen him so formal. There was something unnatural about it. "You can count on us."

"That remains to be seen," the king said. He raised his hand with some effort and rang a tiny silver bell. Its sweet tones had barely faded when a boy materialized, dressed in the royal family's colors. He had a shaved head and a tan that spoke of plenty of time in the sunlight, and his smile was infectious. Marco liked him on sight. "Take them to their chambers," came the whispered order, and they were dismissed as the attendant who'd seen them into the room rushed to his side.

The boy lead them out of the throne room and down a long, marbled hallway that opened to a courtyard no longer in bloom. It was probably magnificent during the spring and summer months, but now everything slouched and hid its shriveled face from prying eyes. They came to a halt in front of an intricately carved fountain decorated with ships and mermaids, and for all its beauty it was empty and dry. The boy glanced around, then beckoned them closer with an urgent motion.

"We can talk here," he said. "I'm Connie. You came to help the princess, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "If you really mean it, I can help you."

"You can?" Marco asked, surprised.

Jean eyed Connie suspiciously. "Why us? Why not the others?"

"They didn't care about her," Connie said, mouth twisted up in a scowl. "They just wanted the glory. Or to marry her, like some kind of prize. Sa - the princess is my friend. I won't let that happen to her."

"Don't worry, neither of us wants to marry her," Jean assured him.

Connie nodded, satisfied. "Good. I thought you were different." He beckoned them closer. "There's a secret passage from your room to the tower. I'll be there at midnight, so be ready. We can't get caught."

"Caught by who?" Marco asked.

"I can't say here," Connie said through his teeth, and smiled. "Anyway, you must be tired. Let me take you to your room."

"Okay," Jean said, slowly. Marco just nodded. He was tired.

\- - -

They couldn't get enough of touch now, either of them. Marco sprawled across the bed, digging his fingers and toes into the thick velvet bedspread that crumpled beneath him while Jean bounced around the room in erratic circles, running his hands over the walls and drapes and furniture over and over again. "I can move on my own again!" he crowed as he flopped down on the chaise, limbs spilling over the sides. "I forgot how incredible that feels."

Marco nodded and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the blankets. He was almost dizzy from the renewed sensation. His world had been monotone and dull around the edges, faded like old patchwork, and now it had exploded back into glorious color all at once and he sucked it in greedily, trying to absorb as much as he could. "I forgot how _nice_ it is," he said, voice muffled. "Just to be solid again. Whole."

_I never thought I would be again._

Hot tears stung his eyes, and he shoved his face deeper into the blanket, smearing them across his cheekbones. 

"Same here," Jean said, and when Marco looked up he was standing at the window now, watching the sun begin its descent towards the horizon in swathes of burnt orange and gold. He was bordering on see-through in this light, body shimmering around the edges. Marco shoved his hands firmly beneath the comforter, grabbing fistfuls of it so he didn't do something like try to touch Jean and make sure he was really still there.

There were downsides to being alive again, he was discovering. Like the way his heart started ricocheting around his ribcage when Jean crawled onto the bed and stretched out next to him, his hand brushing Marco's elbow, and the way his skin prickled in response. That, he could have done without.

"So what now?" Jean asked, seemingly oblivious to Marco's turmoil. "Connie isn't supposed to show up until midnight."

"Right," Marco said, and the flush crawled from his cheeks down the back of his neck. He wiped his clammy palms on the blanket. It wasn't a big deal. They were just... alone. In a room together. With a door that locked. 

Between Jean being a collection of disembodied bones for most of the time they'd known each other and spending the last three days relearning their bodies and limitations while they traveled, this sort of situation hadn't occurred to Marco. There hadn't been time to think about it.

Now, though.

Now they lay a hair's breadth from one another, and Jean's profile was severe against the rich softness of their surroundings, smile mischievous, eyes amber in the dying light. Marco swallowed. Jean's eyes softened. His mouth was very pink, and it looked sweet when he wasn't spitting out harsh words and rolling his eyes. His hand brushed Marco's elbow again, and Marco froze, fingers so tight around the blanket he was afraid he might rip it.

Jean shifted, the bed dipping under his weight as he inched closer. He looked at Marco like there was a question hovering on his lips, like maybe Marco was the one who could close the distance between them and answer it. Marco was beginning to find the need to breathe inconvenient.

Their eyes stayed locked for a moment longer, but Marco looked away, hot all over and skin feeling three sizes too small. When he looked back, Jean was sitting up, and whatever was in his eyes a moment earlier was gone, iced over like the first frost of winter. "Do you want supper? I'm going to see about finding someone to bring us supper."

"Oh... sure." Marco's stomach grumbled in agreement. He was getting used to being hungry again, but it was a distraction from the twinge of disappointment he felt when Jean got up and the comforting weight at his side vanished.

They figured out how to summon one of the chamber maids with some trial and error - the gardener was kind enough to give them some pointers, even though they'd summoned him from his bath, and he'd been wearing a towel, so it ended up alright - and dinner was served shortly thereafter. It was little more than hunks of bread and a thin stew, but they cleaned their bowls. Midnight was still a few hours away when they finished.

"Can I ask you something?" Marco finally ventured, after some time had passed. The silence between them felt different now, heavier, and he was eager to break it.

"What is it?" Jean stood at the window again, watching the moon swell and ripen, sky bleeding indigo.

"Are all princes..." He tried to think of an appropriate word and failed. "Like you?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's just... you don't seem very concerned with, you know... formalities. Or traveling with me and Eren and Armin. And your clothes - " 

He'd only meant that Jean had turned out to be nothing like he'd expected. He was haughty, sure, but he was also good-hearted, even if he chose to hide it from others. He was nothing like the nobles in the tales Marco's mother would tell him and his sister at bedtime, cruel and greedy creatures who saw the value in coin but not in their fellow humans. Jean's spine went rigid, like he was anticipating a blow, and his thick brows knotted together.

"Are you accusing me of lying?"

His voice was knife-edged, and Marco folded, flabbergasted. "What? No! I just meant - "

"These are - I'll have you know these are my traveling clothes," Jean said, and his cheeks were strangely pink, gaze darting away from Marco's like some skittish animal. "And it's been nice to speak... freely, outside of court. I'm not some _commoner._ "

"Right," Marco said, and looked down at his hands, callused and broad, as freckled as the rest of him from a lifetime of baking in the sun. "Not like me."

"Yes. I mean no! I mean - " Jean bit his lip and stopped, his ears and neck all patchy and pink. He took a step towards Marco, twisting the edge of his tunic uselessly between his fingers. "I didn't mean it like that." Marco didn't move. Jean sighed and ran his hands over his face, scrubbing at his eyes with his palms. "Marco, I owe you my life. Literally. If I can ever repay you, just say the word."

"You want to repay me? Then don't. Don't be like... like that." The words were being dragged from a place deep in his chest, and he could barely get them out, his throat felt so tight. He'd thought that they were friends. In his foolishness, lured by the scent of a witch's garden and the curve of Jean's lips the first time he'd seen them, he'd thought they were - that they could have - "Please, just... don't."

"I'm sorry," Jean said, voice softer than Marco had ever heard it. He sank down on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees. "What _do_ you want, though? There has to be something." Marco didn't answer at first. He jolted when Jean twisted to face him and reached out, cold fingertips landing on Marco's bare wrist like raindrops. "Marco?"

The last person to touch Marco besides Jean had been his mother, the day he left his village. She'd hugged him so tightly he could scarcely breathe, then held his face between her flour-dusted palms like she was trying to memorize it before she finally let him go. He pictured her burying his lifeless body at the crossroads, tears spattering against the upturned dirt. He pictured her at the window of their home, watching the first leaves flutter to the ground.

"I think," he said, "I just want to go home."

\- - -

Midnight came, unusually cold, and the bookcase against the back wall let out a long, shuddering groan as it slid open, revealing Connie and a candle. He beckoned them impatiently with his free hand, then put his finger to his lips. Jean went first, Marco trailing behind him. The bookcase scraped along the stone as it shut behind them at Connie's whispered behest, and they were left to follow him through a dank, winding passage, the only light coming from the flame flickering merrily in his hand, casting smudged, oily shadows on the walls.

_I really hope this wasn't a trap,_ Marco thought. He caught Jean's eye, whose expression made it clear that if this was a trap, they probably deserved to be caught.

\- - -

"Connie!"

Sasha had clearly been waiting for them. She rose from her seat on the woven rug, bundled up in a shawl and her dressing gown, and Marco was struck by how plain she was. He'd always expected to find himself awed, meeting a princess, but she looked like any girl, with long auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She wasn't ugly, but she was refreshingly unadorned, and her smile was broad, bordering on undignified. She and Connie clasped hands like lifelong friends, not noble and servant, and Marco couldn't help but smile. Seeking his fortune and meeting royalty were turning out nothing like he'd imagined.

"I brought you these two travelers," Connie said. "Marco and Jean. They're here to help." 

Sasha regarded them with open suspicion. "You don't want to marry me, do you?"

"Ah, no," Jean said. "Sorry?"

"Good." The wariness fell away, replaced with another beaming smile. "Sit over here and I'll explain." The rug she patted was soft and white, patterned with blue roses. Marco recognized it as the same pattern on the wallpaper in Historia's room. "You might as well sit, anyway. This is going to take a minute." They made to sit on the floor, but Sasha shook her head vehemently. "No, on the rug! Hurry!" Alarmed, Marco scooted forward, and Jean sunk down next to him. "It's enchanted," Sasha explained, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. " _He_ can't try to listen in on us this way."

"Who?" Jean asked.

Sasha shivered a little, and Connie put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Father's sorcerer. I don't know his name. No one does."

("A name is a powerful thing," the witch had said to Marco as they laid Jean's bones in a bed of flowers, reconstructing him piece by piece. "Don't give yours away so freely.")

"This is all his fault," Connie growled, arm tightening around Sasha's shoulders.

"It all started with my sister, Ymir." Sasha took up the anxious twisting of her hair again. " _He's_ power-hungry. He almost had Father convinced that Ymir should be married off to him, but she bolted one night last year. She wrote me a letter a few months later to let me know that she was okay. I guess she fell in love with a noble girl in Sina, and ran away to be with her." Marco's eyebrows shot up. Jean glanced at him curiously, until recognition dawned. "We kept exchanging letters, up until a couple of months ago. I thought I was hiding them well enough, but _he_ found them, somehow. I know he did." She looked between them, and there was desperation in those soft brown eyes, so stark it pierced Marco's heart to the core. "I haven't heard from her since."

"The girl's name, the one she left to be with," Marco said. "Is her name Historia?"

Sasha's expression shifted from despairing to incredulous faster than he could blink, and she practically flung Connie aside as she hurled herself at him, clutching his hands. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Yes! Tell me what you know," she demanded, breathless. "Have you seen my sister? Is she alright?"

"Sort of, yes," Marco said, gently removing himself from her grasp.

"She's alive, at any rate," Jean said. "Though not entirely herself." They filled Sasha in after that, bits and pieces at a time, talking over and around one another in their haste to explain.

"Thank the gods," Sasha sighed when they were finished. "She's alive."

"So, is that it, then?" Jean asked. "You want us to bring your sister back?"

"Well, yes, but... there's more to it." Sasha suddenly became very interested in the fringe on her shawl, and Connie huffed.

"Just tell them already."

"But - "

"She's in love with Knight Captain Mikasa," Connie said, and yelped as Sasha smacked the side of his head. "Ow! Sasha!"

" _Connie_!" Sasha wailed. "You can't just _say_ that!"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" he shot back. "You've been pining over her for years."

"I never should have told you," she mumbled, face in her hands.

"Didn't need to tell me. It's obvious." Connie looked at Marco and Jean. "Mikasa's in love with Sasha, too. But they can't be together."

"Mikasa..." Marco recalled a parade through Sina a year or two previous, in the middle of the town square just before the market opened. It had been led by a beautiful young woman with a grim expression and hair the color of night, clad in gleaming armor. "She's the youngest knight captain in a century, isn't she?" He'd heard tales of her prowess, though he wasn't sure how exaggerated they'd become by the time they reached his sleepy little town.

"Yes," Sasha said dreamily. Connie snickered, and she elbowed him.

"So, if you're in love, what's the problem?" Jean asked.

Sasha's rapturous expression crumpled. " _He's_ her uncle," she said. " _He_ wants us to marry. It's the next best thing to marrying me or Ymir himself. He'd have even more power than he already does. But that's not the worst of it."

"Oh, good," Jean said.

"He steals magic," Sasha said. "I don't know how, but he does. And when he found out that Mikasa and I were refusing to marry, he stole mine."

"Sasha's a greenwitch," Connie chimed in. "Or was. So everyone thinks it's her causing the blight."

Marco nodded. Every year, his family would gather with the other villagers at the beginning of the harvest and say a charm of gratitude over their tithe, thanking the king's daughter for ensuring a bountiful season, just as her mother before her had done.

Sasha let out a wet, shuddery breath. "I can't tell anyone. He might hurt Father, or Mikasa, or Connie, or Ymir, or..." She caught herself and took another deep breath. "He just... _knows_ things, somehow." A spasm of anger contorted her features. "He's trying to force me to make a decision. I'm worried for Father. You've seen him."

"Do you think he'll try to kill your father?" Jean asked.

"Yes. And I think he'll make it look like an accident," Sasha said. "With Ymir missing, that puts me on the throne, and then - "

"You'll have to marry within a fortnight," Marco finished. She nodded, chewed at her thumbnail.

"I could marry some eligible stranger, but I'd only be putting them in harm's way. _He_ won't stop until he's king." Connie held her free hand, solemn now, and she looked at them once more, eyes wet with helpless anger. "I don't know what to do!"

"Some eligible stranger," Marco repeated softly.

\- - -

Jean was unusually silent on the way back to their quarters, but as soon as they were safely inside and Connie had departed, he planted his hands against Marco's shoulders and shoved. He was thinner than Marco, wiry, and Marco was sturdy from a life in the fields, but it caught him off-guard, and he stumbled.

"Why did you do that?" Jean was grimacing at him, fists clenched by his sides when Marco turned around.

"What do you mean?"

"You volunteered me to marry her!"

"Fake marry!" He said it louder than he meant to, taken aback by the sudden onslaught of Jean's anger. "All you have to do is pretend that you want to ask for her hand when we see the king tomorrow, and then we can - "

"You could have asked first!"

Marco put his hands up, palms out in supplication. "I thought you wanted your body back?"

"Of course I do! That's not the point." Jean grabbed handfuls of his own hair and yanked at it, looking thoroughly exasperated. "It doesn't bother - what if I had to marry her for real, Marco?"

"You don't, though," Marco said, at a loss. Jean swore under his breath and sat down, hard, on the chaise, arms folded protectively over his chest. "Jean, I'm sorry. I should have asked first. It's just, you're the prince, so..."

"Yeah, I get it," Jean said, and refused to look him in the eye.

\- - -

_What if I had to marry her for real?_

Marco didn't sleep much that night, and when he did finally doze off, he had a series of dreams in which he was being slowly strangled by the thick velvet comforter while ghostly white hands plucked Jean apart, piece by piece. He woke up in a cold sweat and looked around, frantic, vision still cloudy with sleep. Jean was laying on the chaise, staring out the window at the first fragments of dawn. Marco let out a breath in one harsh exhale. His chest ached.

"Nightmares?" Jean asked. He shimmered, awash in lilac light, and when the neck of his tunic slid to the side, Marco could see three perfect red spheres, dotting his collarbone like rubies.

"Yeah," he said. "You?"

"Yeah."

"You can come over here," Marco said, after a moment. "If you want."

He half-expected a refusal. Instead, Jean climbed into the bed like he'd been waiting for an invitation all along.

They wound up laying shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, except for their arms, which brushed whenever one of them stretched or shifted just so. Each faint nudge of Jean's elbow or wrist made Marco go hot and cold all over at the same time, like he was contracting a fever. He almost wished it _were_ a fever. He nearly flew off the bed when he looked over and caught Jean staring at him. "W-what?"

"You have so many freckles," Jean said. "I can't believe I never noticed."

Marco ducked his head, ears burning. "Thanks, I guess?"

"It's not a bad thing," Jean reassured him. His hand bumped against Marco's, feather-light at first, then more firmly. "I think they're nice." Marco froze.

_What if I had to marry her for real?_

Jean kept looking at him. His fingertips touched Marco's, and then their fingers were intertwined, Jean's palm warm and a little sweaty. Marco was trembling now, like a rabbit in a snare. He didn't know why he was trembling. It was just Jean. Jean and his surprisingly soft hand, caught up in Marco's own.

\- - -

"Do you think it'll work?"

"It had better," Jean muttered, tugging at the collar of his tunic. He looked pale, and Marco touched his arm in a gesture that he hoped was comforting.

They had an audience this time - what remained of the court was eager to hear what they had to say to the king. The blight had lasted all summer, the harvest yielding nothing but empty mouths, and they were starved for any scraps of hope. Marco shied away from their desperate eyes, letting Jean lead him up to the throne. The king coughed into his handkerchief, hollow and phlegm-y. "What news have you brought me today, travelers?"

"We have seen the princess, as you requested," Jean said. A maid and a footman had been sent to chaperon their "first meeting" with Sasha in the garden that morning. Marco thought they'd all done reasonably well at pretending that this was their first encounter, though he'd been worried Sasha was going to burst out laughing when Jean awkwardly kissed her hand before departing. "She isn't causing the blight. Not directly." Jean stopped and took a deep breath. "My companion is a medium. He believes she is possessed." A disbelieving murmur rippled through the room.

The king was silent for a long moment, handkerchief still crumpled in his bony fingers. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Marco said. His grandmother had been a true medium, and he thought of her now, trying to imitate her air of wisdom and serenity. "But please don't worry. If I can communicate directly with the spirit, I may be able to convince it to leave her body."

The room, already chilly, grew colder. A man stood next to the throne, at the king's right hand as if he'd been there all along. He was tall and lean and wore a shabby coat and hat that had seen better days. He put Marco in mind of a spider, with spindly, sharply-jointed limbs and dead black eyes. His unkempt hair was slicked away from his face and cruel lines framed his mouth, which was as sharp and thin as the rest of him. 

"Ah," the king said, sonorous voice echoing in the silence. The room had gone eerily still, every single person's gaze trained on the floor. Even the guards wouldn't meet the man's eyes. "You've come."

"Yes, your Majesty." The man's flat gaze raked over Marco and Jean, assessing them coolly. Every hair on Marco's body stood on end. "So, the prince and his companion think they can accomplish what a dozen others could not."

"We do," Jean said, only the barest hint of a sneer in his words.

The man's lip curled. "What brave young men you must be. So selfless." Marco nudged Jean's elbow with his own warningly. _Be still._ "I'm sure you already know how to make a communion brew." 

"Wormwood, bay and chervil," Marco said, meeting the man's shrewd gaze. "Lavender, if it's in season." 

"My personal stores include dried wormwood and bay. I would be happy to surrender some to aid the princess," the man said smoothly. "Chervil, on the other hand, must be freshly picked, or it loses its potency." He smiled, pallid flesh stretching tight so the bones nearly showed through. "But you knew that, I'm sure."

"Of... of course," Marco replied, heart sinking. His grandmother had once told him that wild chervil only grew in one place, at the foot of Mount Stohess. It was going to take damn near a week to get there and back, assuming they didn't run into trouble. "We were planning to leave at once."

"We'll be back as soon as we're able," Jean added, arms folded behind his back. Only Marco could see the white-knuckled grasp he had on his wrist. 

"Naturally," the man drawled. "But what, may I ask, will you do if you can't persuade the spirit to leave on its own?"

"An exorcism," Marco said. The man nodded, and the king held up his hand, calling for silence.

"If you succeed, you may name your prize," he said. "What would you ask of me?"

"The heart I desire most," Jean replied.

"The princess' heart?" The man asked softly.

Jean raised his chin. "I am a prince. I need a worthy consort."

The man swiveled his head to look at Marco while the rest of his body remained still. It put Marco in mind of a snake about to strike. "And you?"

"My family and I are loyal citizens. The blight has affected us as much as anyone." Marco had rehearsed his answer that morning, and even though it was true enough, a part of him was afraid that he might falter beneath the scrutiny placed on him now. "An end to it is all I desire."

The king nodded and coughed into his handkerchief. "Then speak to Levi, my master of the household. He will see you properly outfitted for your journey."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Jean said, relief evident in his voice.

The king steepled his fingers at the bridge of his nose, regarding them both with something like resignation. "My daughter's fate rests in your hands. Hurry."

"Yes, your Majesty," Jean said, and he and Marco bowed as one all the way out of the throne room.

\- - -

Levi turned out to be a short, severe man with equally short, severe black hair and the most spotless set of clothes Marco had ever seen. He also ran an efficient household. Before they had even finished explaining what they needed, servants appeared, summoned with the ring of a bell, and Levi divided up the supplies between them. "Go," he said, and they scattered like frightened birds. Levi flicked a non-existent speck of dirt from his cravat. "I'm to tell you to go to the courtyard. Princess Sasha wants to see you off." 

"Thank you," Jean said.

Levi made a little 'hunh' sound in the back of his throat, unimpressed. "Go now. I'll have your supplies brought to you." 

They watched him stride away. "He's kind of creepy," Jean said under his breath.

Marco shrugged. "He doesn't seem so bad."

Jean made a face and threw his hands up. "How are you real?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're always so... cheerful! And you don't judge people or get impatient or anything. Doesn't it get exhausting?"

Marco considered for a moment. "I've never thought about it, but not really." He smiled. "Seems like it'd be way more exhausting to act like a pessimist all the time."

"I'm not - hey," Jean said, looking peeved. "I'm a realist."

Marco laughed and squeezed Jean's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go see your beloved." 

"I take it back," Jean said. "You're not nice at all. You're awful." The tips of his ears were red. Marco wanted to bite them. He shook off the thought, his insides warm, and they went to the courtyard where Sasha was waiting, accompanied by her handmaidens and their escorts.

Like the garden, the courtyard would have been grand in better days. Carved alicorns and manticores lined the walkway and cavorted in the dried-up fountain, and dead ivy strangled the archway. Pots of shriveled lilies and irises decorated the stairs, leaking soft brown petals everywhere. It put Marco in mind of a graveyard, so he tried to picture it alive, greenery bathed in sunlight and color vibrant against the stone while the fountain bubbled in the shade.

Sasha smiled at them. She was dressed informally, in a simple white dress like she was going to pre-burial rites. A handkerchief was balled up in her fist. "I came to wish you safe travels."

If she was afraid, she hid it well. Her freckled face was cheerful as she tied her handkerchief around Jean's bicep. He pressed his hand to the fabric, his fingers lingering where hers had been only seconds earlier, and met her eyes. "Thank you, princess."

It was intimate, which wass the point. Jean was here to play the role of the bold, adventurous prince, out to save the kingdom and win the princess' heart. He needed to be convincing. It still made Marco feel like his own heart was clenched up painfully in his chest. Sasha blushed a little when he kissed her hand, but that was less strange - all three of them knew she was picturing Mikasa. Her handmaidens giggled behind their fans.

The servants came outside then, toting two packs full of supplies and gear, and they were shown to the gates. The wheel in the gatehouse shrieked, gates cranking open slowly, and Marco looked back. Sasha was still watching them, and she raised her hand and waved, mouthed something he couldn't make out. He and Jean bowed low, and the gates scraped shut behind them.

\---

The road to Mt. Stohess was long and winding, the peak just visible in the distance, and the further they got from the castle, the greener and more lush the scenery became. Fat, creamy clouds were bathed in amber and blush by the time they stopped for the day, and they found a copse of trees where they could set up camp and watch the sunset. A flock of birds winged east overhead. Neither of them spoke much, lost in their thoughts, and the buttermilk sky slowly gave way to a plum twilight. It was warm enough that they didn't need a fire, so they lay on their bedrolls and watched the stars emerge.

"What are you going to do?" Marco asked, just above a whisper. "After all this is done."

"I don't know," Jean said. He sounded pensive, and Marco was a little surprised - he'd thought Jean might want to go home. Then again, maybe he was unsure if he'd be welcomed, or even remembered. It sounded as if he'd been away a long time. "What about you? Still planning on going home?"

Marco nodded. He couldn't help but think of the little cottage he'd grown up in, with its cozy, overcrowded rooms and blackened old oven that baked the best bread he'd ever had and the thatched roof that leaked during the rainy season, and his heart ached so urgently he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"Could you tell me about them?" Jean's voice was gruff, and Marco looked over at him. He was staring at the sky, avoiding eye contact. "Your family, I mean."

"Well, sure," Marco said. "It's not going to be very exciting, though."

"Please," Jean said. "That sounds nice."

So Marco told him stories in no particular order, as they came to mind: about the month his mother thought he and his sisters kept stealing her pastries and grounded them, but it was actually the family of soot imps with a sweet tooth living in the bakery chimney; the time he fell in Sina's canals and his father ruined his best clothes by diving in after him; the festival the village threw every year to celebrate the completion of the harvest, and how all the kids got together to make charms out of wheat chaff and feathers and throw them into the bonfire in exchange for wishes. He told Jean about his oldest sister - Emilia, who waded into the river to wrestle an six-foot echofish because she heard it insulting her from the bank - and his youngest - Marisa, who didn't speak but could imitate any bird call and sang with them every morning - and he tried not to cry when he talked about his mother, who gave the best hugs in the world and never needed to use a recipe.

"It's a little unfair," he said thickly, laughing. "You know so much about me now, and I still barely know anything about you."

"I just spent the last... however long at the bottom of a river. There's not much to tell."

Marco thought that was a cop-out, so they argued for a bit before settling on a compromise. Jean didn't have to talk about his past if he didn't want to, but Marco was allowed to ask him three Questions, as opposed to regular questions, and he had to answer honestly.

"I'd like to use my first Question now."

"Already?" Jean raised his eyebrows. "Okay. What is it?"

"Do you have any siblings?"

"No. At least, I don't think so."

"Okay. Thank you." He rolled onto his back and stared up. A pair of fireflies bumbled past his line of sight. "Are you planning on telling me about your life voluntarily at any point?"

Now it was Jean's turn to laugh. "Marco, if we make it through this, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

\---

The next few days were largely the same. They walked, talking quietly to distract each other from the tedium until they ran out of things to say, and they stuck close to the trees to stay out of sight. Bandits always multiplied in times of famine. There hadn't been much food to send with them - strips of spiced and dried meat, some bread, and fruit preserved in sugar - so when they got hungry they tied their knives to sturdy branches and went fishing in the river. Jean wasn't thrilled about being in the water, but he turned out to be surprisingly good at trapping fish, and soon they had a few perch tied to a line, scales glittering silver in the afternoon light. They ate those first, and then the rest, and all the while Mt. Stohess grew closer until one day, they were walking in its shadow and they knew they'd arrived.

"They say the mountains have giants sleeping inside them," Marco said as they followed the line of its ridges and peaks, a stark black outline that stretched before them and stained the ground.

Jean looked up to where the very top of the mountain disappeared into a wreath of clouds.

"There was a witch," he said, as if he was reciting something he'd heard long ago and mostly forgotten. "More powerful than any of the others, and the queen went to the Hollow to find them. She asked the witch to grant her the power to save her people from being devoured. Power that great came with a steep price, the witch warned her, but she persisted. So she became a giant herself, and drove the others from her kingdom. But there were others... others who... damn." He frowned. "I can't remember the rest."

"If it's the same tale my father told us when we were younger, I think..." Marco tried to recall his father's voice. "I think that for a while, there was peace, even though she gave up her humanity to subdue the giants. But there was an evil man who wanted the power to control them for himself, and he gave up his heart to learn the old magics so he could take it from her. And then he made the giants eat her."

"That's right," Jean said, smacking himself in the forehead.

They followed the road as it wound past a rocky outcropping and dipped, and then they stood at the top of an incline and looked down into a green-gold sea of waist-high grass and moon flowers. Their buds were tightly furled now, but come night they would bloom, petals alight like candles in the dark. The forest that surrounded the base of the mountain waited on the other side.

"From her blood and bones, they forged a crown," Jean continued, more to himself than Marco. "But when the man tried to put it on, he could not bear its weight, and the giants ate him as well. But then the queen's daughter took the crown and used it to command them to seal themselves deep within the earth, below the mountains."

"Where did you hear that story? I thought it was just one of our folktales."

Jean looked uncomfortable, like he'd suddenly remembered where he was, and waved Marco off. "Just heard it around, I guess." He started down the slope, dust puffing around his ankles. "Come on. I think we can make it before sunset if we hurry."

Marco hesitated, but ended up following him down into the valley. Obviously there was something Jean wasn't telling him, and he didn't want to pry, but he couldn't help wondering all the same. He wished Jean trusted him enough to tell him. He wished it didn't bother him that he didn't. They followed the path through the meadow, grass rippling like water in the hot breeze. Jeweled insects droned all around them, and Jean yawned.

Marco looked at the forest as it grew closer, a dense thicket in the shadow of the mountain, and touched the knife strapped to his belt. "Do you think we can pull this off?" he asked.

"Of course we can," Jean said, nonchalant as anything. "We've made it this far, haven't we?"

"We have," Marco said, because he knew Jean's confidence was mostly for his benefit and he appreciated it.

Jean bumped their shoulders together. "There you go. We can pull this off," he reassured Marco. He didn't pull away after that, not entirely, and his knuckles brushed the back of Marco's hand. Marco wondered what would happen if he tried to lace their fingers together again. If Jean would like it, or push him away. He almost asked, but then Jean jogged ahead, attention elsewhere, and the moment evaporated. "Look, we're almost there."

They were nearly at the hill that lead out of the meadow and up into the forest. Marco exhaled, relieved. "Okay. Before we do this, do you know what chervil looks like?"

"I'm offended you'd even ask."

"Well, do you?"

"Of course not."

Marco had to laugh despite himself. "Well, quit being obnoxious and I'll show you."

"Words hurt, Marco," Jean said, and followed him up the hill.

\---

Chervil grew like lace against the trunks of the oak and poplar trees, two feet high and tender green. They picked as much as they could by the fading light and stored it in the container Levi had lent them, charmed to keep its contents cool and fresh for the return journey. The moon rose not long after, trailing a cloak of stars, and the moon flowers bloomed in a wave, starting in the center and spreading outward until the entire meadow was bathed in silver and gold. A whippoorwill mourned somewhere nearby, voice carrying on the breeze. Marco wiped his sweaty brow and straightened up, clutching the box. "We probably have enough now."

"Good," Jean said, and they stood at the edge of the trees and and admired the view. "Camp here for the night, or start heading back now?"

"It's nice right here." Romantic, he almost said, but his tongue got all knotted up and he swallowed it back down. Maybe it was better he didn't. He didn't know if Jean would agree with him.

"Yeah." Jean was looking at him now, not the flowers. "It's nice."

His voice was low, a bashful smile on his lips, and Marco wanted to kiss him so badly he didn't know what to do with himself. His body leaned in of its own accord, and Jean leaned in too, and then a howl split the air like a thunderclap and they sprang apart.

Calling it a howl was generous. There was something wrong with the cadence, something so undefinable and sickening that no animal should have been able to produce it. The second time, it was joined by others - groaning parodies of a wolf's cry that chilled Marco to the bone. The whippoorwill's song ceased.

"Marco," Jean said, words little more than a frantic whisper. "What is that?" He'd gone very pale in the moonlight, and his physical form flickered, bones visible for a split second.

Marco shoved the container into his arms, to give him something to focus on. "Come on."

They crept along through the trees. The meadow lay open and vulnerable to their left, the forest grew even denser and deeper to their right, and their packs were weighing them down.

The noise sounded again at their backs, and Jean grabbed his arm. "Please tell me that's just some kind of weird bird."

"Jumpers," Marco said. "This way."

"Jumpers?"

"Vengeful spirits." His grandmother had told him about them, warned him and his sisters never to play in the forest after dark. "Their spirits jump out of their bodies when they die and into the first living thing they can find. Most of them aren't strong enough to take over anything but animals."

He ducked under a low-hanging branch, and Jean's voice rose, fingers still locked around Marco's bicep. "Oh, is _that_ all?"

"Jean - "

"Well, maybe next time you could mention the undead murder-wolves sooner!"

"I wasn't thinking about it," Marco said, stomach dropping. "I'm sorry, Jean, I - "

"This way." Jean took the lead, pulling him over a log and some thick, knotted tree roots onto higher ground. "At least it's not bears, I guess." 

A roar echoed from deep within the woods, trees trembling around them as it was joined by the horrible howling once more. The song of scenting prey. Marco's stomach lurched. Their packs hit the ground with a thump, and Jean looked at him, eyes showing white with fear. "Run. Now."

Twigs and leaves whipped at their faces as they tore through the trees, roots rising up to snarl around their feet. The glow from the meadow faded, leaving them to stumble through a maze of shadow and starlight, deeper and deeper into the forest. Marco had no idea where they were going, whether they were headed towards safety or if Jean was leading them straight into the jaws of the beast, but they kept running, breath coming in harsh pants. Not from exhaustion, but from fear. Could they die twice, if they weren't technically alive? He didn't know that either. But they could be separated, and they could feel pain.

He grabbed for the cuff of Jean's coat and banked left, hard, acting on instinct, and they scrabbled over more logs and fallen branches, feet sliding on the rich damp earth. They leaped over a tree stump at the top and wove through the trees, searching for a way out, and then Marco's foot caught on a thick root jutting up from the soil and he lost his balance and went tumbling down into a small clearing. Jean doubled back and went after him. Marco scrambled upright, and he and Jean backed into the center of the clearing.

They were stranded, and the darkness surrounding them came alive with shining eyes, white and yellow like the moon. The hunting party's screams reached a fever pitch, triumphant. Marco's hands were shaking so much he could barely draw his knife.

Jean did the same with his free hand. "Marco," he said, voice trembling. "If we don't make it, I - "

The sound of blade against bone sliced through the clearing, and the howls shifted from triumphant to outraged in its wake. The invisible blade sang again and again and the beasts wailed and the air grew thick with the scent of blood.

Marco and Jean shrank away from it. They couldn't see what was happening, but they could hear it, and that was almost worse. Marco's knife went tumbling to the ground as he clapped his hands over his ears. It was no good, it felt like the carnage was coming from inside his skull, and Jean hung onto him for dear life. He felt like he was going to be sick.

It stopped.

The abrupt silence sent them both reeling. Jean steadied himself while Marco lifted his head cautiously, waiting for it to begin again. It didn't. A woman around their age emerged from the trees, flicking blood from her sword. There was blood on her beautiful silver armor and flecked across her cheeks, and she wore a red scarf around her neck. It took Marco a second to recognize her.

"Knight Captain Mikasa?" 

"Yes." She sheathed her sword. "Are you hurt?"

Marco shook his head. Jean was staring at her, awestruck. "How did you - I mean, you - "

"I followed you here." Up close, she had the same steely gray eyes as Levi, and the same unruffled composure. "Sasha is counting on you. I'm here to make sure you succeed."

"Thank you," Marco said, finally getting his voice back. 

"That was incredible," Jean said, still dazed. "Really."

Mikasa let the compliments roll off her back, expression unchanged. It was impossible to tell what she might be thinking. Marco wondered if she was unhappy about having to rely on them, unable to save the woman she loved herself. How frustrated she must be. She turned around and beckoned them to follow. "There's no time to waste. I'll escort you back to the road." They had to run to keep up with her.

"She really killed all those jumpers herself?" Jean whispered in Marco's ear as they jogged down the path.

"They say she's worth as much as a hundred ordinary soldiers," Marco whispered back, and Jean looked suitably impressed.

They followed her out of the forest and back through the meadow, and her armor shone like a beacon with the reflected light of a thousand moon flowers. She stopped when they got to the road.

"This is as far as I can go." Her hand rested on the pommel of her sword. "Hurry back to the castle. Please."

"This is as far as you can go?" Jean asked. "Why?"

"My uncle." Mikasa's eyes went flat. "I'm supposed to be on patrol. He has spies everywhere. If I take you any further, he'll know I helped you."

"Oh," Jean said, voice soft.

"I'm sorry," Marco said, and regretted it. What good did that do her? He cleared his throat. "Thank you again. We'll get back to the princess as soon as we can."

Mikasa nodded and pulled her scarf up, masking the lower half of her face. "Good luck."

They watched her walk back through the meadow and disappear into the trees. 

"Good luck," Jean echoed. Their packs were lost in the woods, but he still held onto the box of chervil. Marco's heart still felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. All around them, the silhouettes of the mountains rose and fell like the shoulders of sleeping giants.


End file.
